Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“He seemed pretty down to earth for the thirty seconds I saw him on your Zoom call.”
“Of course, he is. He’s our friend, but he’s also become . . this other thing. This other guy and I’m still getting to know that person.”
“Well you got questions, he got answers. Today is the perfect day to get reacquainted.”
The door swings open and Janelle walks in, laughing with her arm linked through Touré’s. As soon as he crosses the threshold, the air seems to exit the room. To leave my lungs. It’s sudden and startling, being in the same space with him again. Not the grainy image of him through an unstable connection on Zoom, but the hum his energy injects into the air. The rugged features, a merging of known and new. The same dark eyes, but now fine lines fan out at the corners. The same full lips, but bracketed by a layer of gray-flecked stubble. The same bones, but more stark in a face yielded leaner and somehow more handsome through the years. He has grown into himself, physically and in every other way. I’m so busy absorbing the ways he has changed, that I almost miss that he’s studying me with the same intensity, his eyes tracing my face and down the length of my body.
“Oh, my god!” A young woman squeals from just behind Touré and Janelle.
She’s petite and pretty, her face alive with humor. Goddess locs are caught up at the sides and falling down her back. She wears a Miss Finley sash over a slim-fitting floral dress.
“Ms. Spencer! Oh my god. I love your work. You’re amazing.”
I can’t help but smile, not only at her fan-girlism, but at Touré’s longsuffering expression.
“Niomi,” Touré drawls. “I’d like to introduce my daughter Celine. As you can tell, she’s a fan.”
“Thank you for being here,” Celine gushes, stepping close and grabbing my hands. I give her fingers a squeeze and smile at her.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Celine. I wouldn’t miss the chance to interview one of the most elusive journalists of our time.”
She glances at her father as if just remembering he’s there. “Oh, yeah. Dad.”
We all laugh, and even Touré grins, shaking his head. “I gets no love at home.”
“Maybe you would,” Celine mumbles softly. “if you were ever home.”
Janelle is momentarily distracted by a message on her phone, and I think I’m the only one who heard Celine’s comment. The smile melting from Touré’s face tells me he heard, too. If he didn’t have years of training, of disciplining his features, I might have missed the hurt that flashed in the eyes so like his daughter’s.
“And you may remember my cousin Ron, Touré,” I say quickly, hoping to cover any awkwardness left by Celine’s remark. “You met him virtually when we had our video call.”
“It’s an honor.” Ron steps forward, hand outstretched. Touré hesitates for the space of a heartbeat before accepting the proffered hand. His narrowed glance flicks between my face and Ron’s.
“If you’re looking for family resemblance,” Ron says. “You’re wasting your time. Technically I’m her step-cousin, but close enough. If anything, she’s more like a big sister. Annoying and always in my business.”
“And always for your own good,” I tell Ron, bopping him lightly on the side of his head. “Got you out of more than one scrape by being in your business. You’re welcome.”
I’m still laughing and teasing Ron, so it’s a second before I look back to Touré. His tight expression eases with something that looks like relief and he daps Ron up.
“I do recall her being all up in my business a time or two,” Touré laughs. “She and Janelle both.”
“Ms. Spencer was like a sister to you, Dad?” Celine gapes at him. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Sister?” Touré’s glance slides to me, his brows lifting. “I wouldn’t say that.”
My breath catches at the warmth of the look he pours over me like honey, sticking to long-needy places and skimming neglected spots like he’s saving those for later. Maybe it’s my imagination, but when I glance at Janelle, her brows are lifted in that okayyyyyyy way of hers. She leans in and whispers in my ear.
“I saw that.”
“You ain’t see nothing,” I hiss back at her.
I turn to Touré, careful not to quite meet his eyes in case that heat is still there. I can’t afford to be distracted by this obstinate what if attraction I feel. This may be a chore for him, something he’s doing to win points with his daughter—because obviously he needs some wins on that front—but it’s one of the biggest interviews of the year for me and my show.
The door opens again and Frank pops his head in. One of our production assistants hovers behind him in the hall with an iPad clutched to her chest.